SCENE I

_A fine warm afternoon in late winter. A green hillock at the edge of a ploughland. A peasant girl, with mischief in her movement, runs on, and looks from the hillock up and down the furrows. Then she fixes her gaze on some object in the distance, and after a moment sings_--

_Nell_:

The ploughman he’s a bonnie lad, His mind is ever true, jo; His garters knit below his knee, His bonnet it is blue, jo.

Then up wi’ it a’ my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman. Of a’ the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman.

My ploughman he comes hame at e’en, He’s aften wat and weary; Cast off the wat, put on the dry, And gae to bed, my dearie!

Then up wi’ it a’ my ploughman lad, And hey my merry ploughman. Of a’ the trades that I do ken, Commend me to the ploughman.

[_As the song is closing the approach of plough-harness is heard, and_ ROBERT BURNS, _driving, appears at the back of the scene. He sees_ NELL _and draws the plough up_.]

_Burns_: Nell! there’s a good lass now.

_Nell_: Oughtn’t you to go on with your ploughing?

_Burns_ (_turning_): To please you?

_Nell_: That’s as may be.

_Burns_ (_coming back_): Pretty Nell.

_Nell_: You think I’m pretty?

_Burns_ (_taking her in his arms and kissing her_): Pretty, pretty Nell.

_Nell_ (_sitting on the grass_): I could be pretty if you had some money.

_Burns_: Oh, I’ll have money yet.

_Nell_: But by then I shan’t be able to be pretty any more.

_Burns_ (_sitting beside her_): But you are, Nell--pretty as a fair-day.

_Nell_: A girl wants ribbons and laces and all that. Look at my frock--why, the quality’s serving women would laugh at it.

_Burns_: Their ignorant pride, Nell. I don’t laugh at it--I think it’s like a queen’s dress--you make it look like that. I thought that the first day, barley-gleaning--you remember? The way you walked, and then stooping--willow rods and birds’ wings and the way a star falls. What’s a dress to all that, my dearie?

[_He sings._]

O, once I lov’d a bonnie lass, Ay, and I love her still; And, whilst that virtue warms my breast, I’ll love my handsome Nell.

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel: An’ then there’s something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel.

A gaudy dress and gentle air May slightly touch the heart; But it’s innocence and modesty That polishes the dart.

’Tis this in Nelly pleases me, ’Tis this enchants my soul! For absolutely in my breast She reigns without control.

_Nell_: And all that is for me?

_Burns_: You like it?

_Nell_: Yes, Robbie. But what was that about innocence and modesty?

_Burns_: That’s for the Sabbath, maybe.

_Nell_: It’s not the Sabbath to-day.

_Burns_ (_accepting the invitation_): My pretty, pretty Nell. (_As he kisses her._)

[_After a long embrace_, BURNS _repeats_.]

_Burns_:

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, Both decent and genteel: An’ then there’s something in her gait Gars ony dress look weel.

[_As he finishes, the music announces the coming of_ HOLY WILLIE, _the canting parson of Scotch bigotry, upon whose appearance the lovers separate_, NELL _a little disconcerted_, BURNS _returning to his plough_. HOLY WILLIE _sees them, with a great gesture of disapproval. When they have gone, he sings the following part of his prayer._]

_Holy Willie_:

O Thou that in the heavens does dwell, Wha, as it pleases best Thysel’, Sends ane to heaven, and ten to hell, A’ for Thy glory, And no’ for ony guid or ill They’ve done before Thee!

Lord, bless Thy chosen in this place, For here Thou hast a chosen race: But God confound their stubborn face, And blast their name, Wha bring Thy elders to disgrace And public shame.

But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi’ mercies temporal and divine, That I for grace and gear may shine, Excell’d by nane, And a’ the glory shall be Thine, Amen, Amen!

[_Towards the end of the prayer_, BURNS _has come back, and stands listening; as the prayer closes_, HOLY WILLIE _turns and sees him_.]

_Holy Willie_: Young man, young man, I do not like your ways.

_Burns_: I don’t like your prayer.

_Holy Willie_: You blaspheme against Holy Kirk.

_Burns_: You blaspheme against God.

_Holy Willie_: Beware the wrath of the ministry, young man.

_Burns_: Beware His wrath on holy upstarts, minister.

_Holy Willie_: Shameless, shameless. With your doxy there. Who was she?

_Burns_: A good girl, minister. All affection, and young, and kisses, and likes a song.

_Holy Willie_: A hussy--a woman of evil, I doubt not.

_Burns_: And the greatest of these is charity.

_Holy Willie_: Profane not that holy word.

_Burns_: Meditate upon it, minister.

_Holy Willie_: Who was the wench?

_Burns_: A sweet ankle--did you notice maybe?

_Holy Willie_: Dare you speak so--to me?

_Burns_: Aye--we are all tinder, completely tinder. Some are ashamed of it, that’s all.

_Holy Willie_: I am not ashamed--that is, I have no cause for shame.

_Burns_: And some of us give praise for all good gifts--a sweet ankle, believe me, minister.

_Holy Willie_: Have a care of the pit, and the everlasting flames.

_Burns_: They’ll come or not as it may be. You’ll not be the judge, minister, there’s hope in that. And the lasses are here, and a man’s heart beats, and you can’t frown us out of it, minister. Look at us, labouring and wearing ourselves and near starving often, and are we to take nothing that bright eyes and fond lips and white young arms may offer? Who talks of profaning, minister!

[_He sings._]

There’s nought but care on ev’ry han’, In every hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o’ man, An’ ’twere na for the lasses, O?

Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O.

The warl’ly race may riches chase, An’ riches still may fly them, O: An’ tho’ at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne’er enjoy them, O.

But gi’e me a canny hour at e’en, My arms about my dearie, O: An’ warl’ly cares, an’ warl’ly men, May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O: The wisest man the warl’ e’er saw He dearly lov’d the lasses, O.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O: Her prentice han’ she try’d on man, An’ then she made the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O! Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e’er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O.

_Holy Willie_: But think of that poor young girl.

_Burns_: I think of her, and think, and think--goddesses, all of them.

_Holy Willie_: I fear you will be damned.

_Burns_: Then I’ll be gallantly damned, minister.

_Holy Willie_: A stubborn heart. She would listen, maybe, though you are deaf. Again I ask you, young man, Who was she? I will counsel her to prudent godliness. Who was she?

_Burns_: A sweet ankle, and an inviting waist--no, I wouldn’t trust you with her, minister.

_Holy Willie_: Lewd and idolatrous! Son of Belial! If thy tongue offend thee pluck it out--offensive tongue! Disgrace among us, profligate and wanton, beware the end!

[_Sings._]

But, Lord, remember me and mine, Wi’ mercies temporal and divine, That I for grace and gear may shine, Excell’d by nane, An’ a’ the glory shall be Thine, Amen, Amen!

[_He goes._]

_Burns_: Beware the end. Had he been a cleaner gospeller, that might be a thing to consider. But the man’s rotten--who is to be preached at by such a one? But, the end. Holy Willie there maybe has the truth of it, for all he’s a false and snivelling prophet. A pretty face, and I’m all song, all springtime. Is that peace in the end? Pretty, pretty Nell. But I’ll sing a song for Scotland yet before I founder--cottar though I be. A song to remember on the highways--aye, and in Courts too. But continence, Robin, or they will consume you.

O, were I on Parnassus hill, Or had of Helicon my fill.

I must mend, indeed, indeed. And they are lovely, but deceivers--so positive and sly--deceivers--I’ll forswear them. I’ll be a monk, and none but John Barleycorn for merry company. Holy Willie is a bad man, but he spoke truth I fear, though by rule of the Kirk’s thumb. Forswear them, Robin.

[_He sings._]

Deluded swain, the pleasure The fickle fair can give thee Is but a fairy treasure-- Thy hopes will soon deceive thee.

The billows on the ocean, The breezes idly roaming, The clouds’ uncertain motion-- They are but types of woman.

O! art thou not ashamed To doat upon a feature? If man thou would’st be named, Despise the silly creature.

Go, find an honest fellow; Good claret set before thee: Hold on till thou art mellow, And then to bed in glory.

The plough, and John Barleycorn--once in a week just--or twice maybe, and I’ll be cold to all glances till wedding-time, if it comes.

[_He moves back towards the plough. As he does so_, NELL _is heard singing, and he stops_.]

_Nell_:

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

[_She appears._]

_Burns_: Nay, I did not whistle. I must to the plough. I am all new in resolution.

_Nell_ (_singing_):

Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me; Come down the back stairs when ye come to court me; Come down the back stairs, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na coming to me.

_Burns_: I’m not courting any longer, I tell you. I’m to beware of lasses, Nell, henceforth. I’m ice, I tell you.

_Nell_ (_moving away, singing_):

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad: Tho’ father and mother and a’ should gae mad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad.

[_She has gone._ BURNS _makes another move to the plough, then turns suddenly, and calls_--]

_Burns_: Nell--Nell.

_Nell_ (_singing_):

O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad....

[BURNS _whistles the rest of the tune through, and_ NELL _is with him again_.]

_Nell_: That black-coated, lean-bodied, yellow-faced gowk to scare you. Cracked metal like that to turn you off, a pretty man like you, Robin, with your kisses and your rhymes. A snivelling man, a watery-eyed man--and bawdy too, I know him. He’s bad Sabbath, a leering, lecherous, safe man--he would and he would not afore God--oh yes, I know him. And you’ll let him trip you up, spoil your stanzas--for shame, Robin.

_Burns_: You ran away, Nell, and left me alone against him.

_Nell_: Ran away--yes I ran away--no Master Sanctimony for me. Ask Annie Leslie.

_Burns_: I gave him no civil flattery--I can read him as well as you or Annie. But I fell to thinking afterwards.

_Nell_: To have done with courting.

_Burns_: Till I’m for wedding.

_Nell_: But I want no talk of weddings. Let that bide. Spring’s coming, and it’s a clear day, and here are we, and you’re a man, Robin, to make holy rags there look the famine he is.

_Burns_: It was a bad resolution.

_Nell_: A miserable resolution, Robin.

_Burns_: I discard it.

_Nell_: You whistled and I came to ye, my lad.

_Burns_: Love shall keep me company with John Barleycorn, Nell,

Until I’m on Parnassus Hill And had of Helicon my fill.

_Nell_: You’re ice!

_Burns_: Then I’m a rogue. It was a spleen of Holy Willie’s begetting. Kiss me.

_Nell_: Are there kisses on the Parnassus Hill you talk of?

_Burns_: Immortal kisses.

_Nell_ (_in his arms_): Take me with you.

_Burns_: I’ll take you, Nell. It shall be our Parnassus Hill.

[_He sings, and, in the repetitions_, NELL _with him_.]

O my luve is like a red, red rose, That’s newly sprung in June; O my luve is like the melodie That’s newly played in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; And I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel a while! And I will come again, my luve, Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

THE CURTAIN FALLS